American Odyssey

Great American Expedition

In all my years of riding a bike, I have always tried to imagine what would be the perfect trip. This ain’t it.

What I am about to do, you see, is to cross 35 state lines, from New York to California, in about three weeks. During this misbegotten trip I will get rained on, laid, snowed on, sandblasted, laid, ripped off, thrown in jail, laid, ticketed, drunk, and laid, and I will get very high. But other than these highs, it will be your regular balls-out marathon, high-speed, almost-get-skragged putt. Boring. This whole foofaraw started on day when I was puttin’ down the street on my rigid chopper. I flew over a chuckhole that made the Grand Canyon look small

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and that rough riding son-of-a-bitch motorcycle of mine came up and hit me in the ass for the umptyumph time. Right there I swore I would take any better way that came along. Just about then, like an omen, I saw this dude come around the corner on one of them new Honda Goldwings. As I pulled up to the spotlight, using my feet to stop me since my brakes worked much like my lights, which didn’t, I noticed this nerd. He looked like something out of Road Rider. I sat there in a growing puddle of oil, being deafened by my holey exhaust pipes, while I watched this here dude lean over and turn his stereo up. My bike coughed and sputtered as I pulled away, and billows of smoke laid like a blue-snit haze at the light. The dude eased off the line and beat me by a mile. While I coasted over to the roadside with a broken chain wrapped around my broken cases and my aching leg, the Goldwing dude just hummed down the road and outta sight. I tried to justify being on this piece of shit when I could be just as cozy as that dude. Then it hit me. Why was I riding this damn thing instead of a comfortable bike? I stood on the comer, looking at the poor broken pile of shit I call a motorcycle. Then something snapped. I was mad as hell, and I wasn’t going to take it any more (I think I heard that somewhere). It was there I decided I would sell my sled and get a real touring bike, a Goldwing. Then I would take off on a dream trip. After I got myself together, I got a Goldwing, loaded it with all the bullshit I used to laugh at, and got ready for my trip.

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I equipped the bike with the following (this is what’s known as a product plug, also known as paybacks, for the goodies on the bike, so it might be a tad boring). My brand-new black Goldwing was fitted with a set of Calafia saddle bags, seat, guard rails, and trip trunk. An Ancra “Free Spirit” Fairing, loaded with CB and stereo 8-track, went on the front. A cruise control was obtained from Vanda-Cruise, and the trip was set. Now all I had to do was figure our where to go. The Madison, Wisconsin, folks were planning a motorcycle show, and since I had never been there before, I decided that would be a neat destination. I bid adieu to my dump and headed east. The first day found me cruising at 85 to 90 mph out of Los Angeles and into the great desert that surrounds it. I made my way out through Barstow, Yermo, and into Nevada. I fought back a great temptation to stop in Las Vegas. I cut across Arizona at the Virgin (I love that name) River Gorge, and I filled up with no-lead in Utah. As the sun arched toward the horizon, I was heading up into the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. It was at about this point I realized something. Even though it may be warm in southern California, there can still be snow in the Rockies. This I learned when I came around a bend and saw this neat snowcapped range. But I didn’t realize I was going to go through it. I pulled over to the side of the road to take a picture of the “scenic grandeur.” This was my first mistake. My second mistake was catching my heel

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on the trip trunk as I remounted and tipping my scoot over. That started the bike falling. I tried jamming my right leg between the bike and the ground, but there was no ground there. I just dropped off down the hill. I laid there, watching eight carloads of tourists pass by, laughing, before I managed to get my poor foot free. Shit. At the next gas stop I met this dude who also was heading over the pass. We both got ready for the snow and cold weather. I put on my long johns, leathers, helmet, snow mask, and heavy gloves. He put on his Levi jacket. That was all he had. The sun dropped and the temperature did the same. We headed up into Vail Pass. It got cold. It snowed. I made it. The dude didn’t. He made it almost to the summit and then pulled off into a motel, frozen to the point where he couldn’t unlatch his fingers. But, even better outfitted than he, I got chilled to the bone, as they say. That night I made my way into Denver, found a warm motel, and spent the night in a warm tub, thawing out my poor frozen extremities, all five of them. It was about there that the trip took a turn for the better. I cut across Iowa until I hit Minnesota, just so I could say I had been there, and then headed east into Wisconsin. It was Friday and that was the day the big show was supposed to start. It was sponsored by the Better Bikers Association in Madison, and M.C.’ed by the CC Riders. It was going to be a good one, and included a big party later. Two things stand out about Madison—they got

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more bikes and more friendly ladies per square capita than anywhere I’ve ever been. A band had been arranged for the night at a place called the Freedom House, and after the show closed on the first night, the party commenced. When that party closed we moved over to the CC Riders’ clubhouse, where we picked up the tempo again. Since I had been on the road for a few days, and being a normal (read perverted) male, all I could think of was a warm place to lay my head. They have some very friendly young ladies in Madison. I definitely have to go back there, very soon. Anyway, friendliness being what it is, the sun came up as we went down, this very friendly young Madison lady and I. A few hours later everybody was back at the fairgrounds, and it was time to open the show. While the Wisconsin bikers checked out the scoots on the inside, I checked out the cool grass on the outside. That evening it was party time again; it was kind of a repeat of the night before, only the band was a lot better, and there were a lot more low mileage pit woofies on hand. In fact, there were so damn many women there, I kept hopping around like a tomcat in heat. And then, like I figured, I glommed onto the young sweetie that I had the first night, and we trucked off to her pad. You know what they say, old friends are best. The next day was the one where I had to bid adieu to all my new friends in Madison and hook it southward. You see, there is this fox in a small suburb of Chicago, oh, never mind, you’ll see. I climbed on the Black Bitch and aimed south.

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Since it’s not such a long ride from Madison to Chicago, I was there in just a few hours. I found a motel and checked in. The rest of the day was spent catching up on the sleep I missed out on in Madison. It seems that I have spent half my life catching up on lost sleep. That evening I wandered into the bar at the hotel to wait for my true love. I found a comfortable place at the bar, and ordered a shot to get my blood moving. As I sat there idly sipping I clamped an eyeball on four dudes over in the comer. A couple of them appeared to be old friends. In fact, real old friends because they were holding hands. That’s funny, I don’t hold hands with my old friends, but maybe that’s how they do it in the midwest, maybe a new fad. One of the “friends” came over and pulled up a stool next to mine. He said something about the “beast” sitting next to him over there, and wanted to know if I would be his “friend.” I ain’t real slow to catch on usually, but right about here it hit me that I had picked the wrong bar. This place was fruitier than the green grocer’s display. As my new “friend” reached over to check the fit of my jeans, I decided that I would hold his hand, too, right about in the small of his back. I wrenched it up to about his neck line, just short of snapping off. Just then my true love walked through the door, and saw me in what must have looked like a compromising position—in a fag bar with my arm around a cupcake. Anyway, I let go of Tinkerbell’s arm and walked to Sweet Thing, and we walked out the door as the

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fag’s friends all came over to kiss his owie. Yech. After a quick dinner at the local McDougal’s Gland of the Swollen Starches we adjourned to my room, where we performed lewd and unnatural acts all night long. The next AM it was hook-it time once more, and that I did. I wanted to stop by a friend’s shop. He had a place call Munch Choppers, right in downtown Chicago. There is one thing about me and Chicago. I get lost a lot. I phoned my friend and asked directions to his pad. It sounded easy. An hour later I was cruising down a small street, in the middle of nowhere, with the only white face in view the one staring back from my mirror. Each time I hit a stoplight the group (gang?) on the comer would check out my scoot, handling, tugging at parts, pushing at the bike and making racial slurs. I had to run a couple of the lights. I don’t know if it was paranoia, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I felt pretty alone and, as they say, vulnerable. Finally, after about an hour and a half, I made it the six miles from my motel to Munch Choppers. We sat around shooting the shit, and had a little liquid lunch. But my feet started shuffling. It was time to ride again.

Since the weather was starting to cool, I decided to make my way down toward sudden summer—south. I aimed the Bitch out of Chicago, the land of fruits and nuts, and headed for the Gulf Coast for a little R&R. About 3 p.m. the next day l was truckin’ out of Arkansas, heading into Texas at Texarkana. I had trav-

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eled through Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee and Mississippi. Some far out country to putt through, for sure. Memory flashed back (gotta stay away from that blue dot) to days gone by. This was only minutes from where I had last seen my wife, daughter, and son. It was just about 10 years ago. My mind started to wander and wonder. Like if they were still in that little town, what they looked like now, how they were, things like that. I suppose after 10 years of neglect I had no right to wonder, especially after getting the itchy heel one day and just puttin’ away from them. Still, I decided to find out. I headed 32 miles south, to a little town called Queen City. It didn’t take a whole lot of time to locate my family. I mean, after all how invisible can you get in a town of 300 people. The motel manager told me all about them. The next two days were spent getting reacquainted with them. It was a real trip, having a family after all those years. Like with anything good, it had to come to an end. My wandering urge hit me on the third day, and it was time to hook it one more time. I decided that I would make it to Dallas, to see what the big city life is all about. I had a friend there, one Chuck Bear, who ran a little bike shop out of his garage, so I hooked it to his house. Once I got there, all I really wanted to do was rest, but Chuck had other ideas. After he told me about a run down in Austin, I decided to go. After all the plans were made he decided that

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he couldn’t go because of work, but by then I was committed. You see, I had called this woofie I know in Houston, and she was flying to Austin to meet me. I arrived in Austin in the morning and searched until I found the run and set up camp. All day long it was hotter than hell, but as the evening came on, it started to cool off. Then the clouds came. On the way to the airport to pick up my true love it started to drizzle. As her plane landed it became a downpour. Seems whenever this chick and I get together it rains. Three other times our bodies meeting triggered a universal cataclysm. This was no exception. We made our way to a motel and licked each other dry. The next day was cloudy, but no rain. We wandered out to where the run was and partied with the folks. It was a damn good group, about 200 of them, from all over Texas and Oklahoma, with a club called the Gypsies, hard partiers, all. As the sun set, Sweet Thing and I decided to go to Houston for a run coming up there. We packed up the Bitch, and made our way east. Then the rain came and it didn’t stop. We rode all the way from Austin to Houston in a downpour. There wasn’t a dry spot between us. But we sure had a lot of fun drying off when we got there. That night I made the mistake of calling Los Angeles to see how things were at work. They said I would have to get my ass back there for a couple of days. They offered to pay the airfare. Never being one to pass up a free trip, even home, I promised to be on the next plane, in the morning.

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The trip to Houston had taken two weeks. It took three hours to get back to Los Angeles. If the stewardesses had been as warm as the cocktails, and the cocktails as cold as the meal, it would have been a good trip. But they weren’t, so it wasn’t. I made a mental note to fly back on a different airline. The next two days back home were spent between getting things together at work and getting caught up on my sleep. Then, after just three short days, I was back on one of them big gooney birds and winging my way east. I had planned to make it to see my kids that night, or at least to get to Queen City, and I allowed myself five hours for the 300-mile ride. The plan was to arrive in Houston at six, so I figured I would get to my kids by 11. You know what they say about the best laid plan. It’s true. I arrived at 6 p.m. like I was supposed to, and Sweet Thing was there with a big smile, ready to truck me to where my bike was. We got on the freeway, and that was when the Vigoro hit the mix-master. It seems there was this ammonia truck and it decided to overturn on this particular day. Not only did it decide to overturn, it figured the best place to do it would be at the main interchange of two main freeways. Actually, that was pretty neat figuring since in Houston, if the interchange is blocked, all the traffic has to be routed onto one-lane streets. It being 6 p.m. on a work day added to the fun. In a matter of mere hours we were back at Competition Motors, and I had the Black Bitch pointed north. It was 8 p.m.

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At midnight I pulled into Queen City. I don’t know what speed I averaged, but I ate my dinner while riding to improve it some. Two McDougal burgers in my pockets, and a Coke spilling between my legs. Yech! I had breakfast with my family, and hooked it once again for a helmet law protest and party scheduled for Albany, New York, on May 8, and I wanted to be there. I figured it would take two hard days to get from Texas to Albany. I also saw Winston-Salem, North Carolina, wasn’t too far off the path, and since my brother was there, I figured I would try to make it to his house for the night. I didn’t know it was 1,165 miles from Texarkana to Winston-Salem. It was 3 a.m. when I pulled into his driveway. We sat there for awhile shooting the shit, and as the sun came up, we passed out. A few hours later I awoke, beat and red-eyed. Everyone else looked so rested and relaxed, but I didn’t stop to ponder my discomfort. I hoped on the Bitch and rode out. Up through Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, and into Pennsylvania, all I thought of was white sheets in darkened motel rooms. It was in Virginia that I met this dude riding a Goldwing bike like mine. He urged me to catch the Blue Ridge Parkway. An hour later I met another dude, also on a Goldwing. He told me the same thing. Now if one guy recommends scenery I might pass it up. But when two bikers say it, I feel an uncontrollable compunction to try the suggestion. I did, and it turn out Mistake Number 25. The Blue Ride Mountain Parkway is a 300-mile road winding along the crest of the (you guessed it)

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Blue Ridge Mountains. Views are just spectacular. While I was puttin’ along it got real warm. In fact, it got up into the 90s. I pulled off my leathers. Then, later, I pulled off my shirt. That felt so damn good I pulled off my helmet, and before long I was standing on my pegs, cruising the winding, scenic road, listening to John Denver tapes on my stereo and really digging every minute of it. Then this goddamn, motherfucking siren comes on and scares the living shit out of me. You know something? Helmet laws suck. I picked up a ticket and lost my feeling for riding the parkway any more, so I got back down off the mountain and hit the interstate, headed for Pennsylvania. Pennsyltucky didn’t share Virginia’s warm weather. It clobbered up and built rain squalls into a steady downpour. Finally, in desperation, just outside Wilkles-Barre, I threw out my sleeping bag under a picnic table and froze my butt off. After three hours of that torture, I decided no sleep was better than pneumonia, so I packed up and kept riding. As the sun was warming the upper strata of the clouds, I swam/rode into the New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania tri-state area. Fortunately, the weather started to clear as I picked up the toll road to Albany. In fact, by the time I pulled into Albany it was sunny. I headed over to B&B Cycle, headquarters for the run, and when I got there it was almost warm. Warren Bennett, organizer of ABATE of New

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York, was busy making arrangements. A lot of you guys don’t know what it takes to organize a big protest. If you did, you would have a lot more respect for the people who get involved. This run was even harder than most since this was to be a party, protest, swap meet, and bike show combined. The camping area for the three-day party was a place called Six Mile Waterworks, which is actually a park with a lake, and plenty of green grass for camping. A bunch of picnic tables were jammed together and some plywood was thrown on top for a stage on which bands would play. The immensity of this bash is best measured by the 25 beer keg lineup. Two hundred bikers were on hand by Friday night to party. Local restaurants were full, but camping was still plentiful. By Saturday about 600 bikers had arrived, as had the band, and it was party time. The beer flowed like beer, and the weather was as perfect as it could get. Even late at night we were riding without jackets. The band played until early morning, and when the sun came up there were half clad and spent bodies laying all over the park. Sunday, an impromptu ride was planned to go to the governor’s mansion. About 300 of us threw our helmets on the ground and took off. Temp was in the high 70s. We made our way to the mansion only to find the governor was out of town. We were informed of this by about six armed guards at the gate. Here is where rule 17 was invoked: If you can’t protest, party. We all made it back to the park for more

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brew and games. A drag race was set up on the street in front of the park, and soon all cars were being diverted. At the same time, in the park itself a swap meet was in full swing, with hundreds of choice items at giveaway prices, but how do you carry a straight-leg frame 3,000 miles on a Goldwing? Over in another corner of the park all of the far-out machines from around New York were lined up for judging in the cycle show, which was being sponsored by the Free Riders from Schenectady. The police finally showed up, but when their 25 cars pulled onto the street in front of the park the heckling and cheering got so loud they backed down and pulled out. They then pulled up to the edge of the park and set up road blocks. Only bikers could get in. No citizens were allowed. This way anybody who came in did so at his own risk, and the police were relived of responsibility. If there was every any doubt in your mind that the CIA has mastered weather control, forget it. A little after sundown the clouds started to come in, and then it started to rain. In an hour the rain turned to snow. All day long we had been riding around in our shirt sleeves, in 75 degree weather, and then, the day before the protest and just when the partying was getting good, here comes the goddamn snow. Well, snow wet down the party, and that’s for sure. Every motel in town was packed with bikes and bikers. Maybe wet, but undaunted, the party just transferred indoors. A rapidly disappearing two-foot blanket of

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snow greeted me for breakfast. Not because of the heat, because of the drizzle. You want to talk about your blue Mondays, this was it. Shit. U-Haul trucks started to show up. All the “bikers” from upstate were loading up. Other bikers tried to talk them into waiting until after the protest, but they wouldn’t. Now I can’t blame them for wanting to truck the bikes home, but since they had spent the night freezing their asses off anyway, or had paid for a motel room, why not make it for a reason? They could have waited. Of the estimated 2,000 bikers who showed up for the protest, only about 250 made the ride to the capitol. Luckily, the press was sufficiently impressed by these cold and wet bikers for coming out in that weather. They gave good coverage. After the protest I aimed the Bitch south again to get out of that damn wet and cold. Passing out of Albany I hit some snow, but not a whole lot, and by the end of the day I was well into West Virginia, where it was a little warmer. The Black Bitch and I just cruised down towards the warmth of Texas. A run was scheduled for San Antonio, and I wanted to make it, but I was in no hurry at all. I cruised through Tennessee and Arkansas, down into Louisiana, like one big, long downhill slide. The sun came out, and it was warm, a day just made for jammin’ a scoot. I cruised through Dallas to pick up my old friend Chuck, and we both loaded up and headed for San Antonio. The site for the run, Canyon Lake, was better

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than any I had ever seen. Hundreds of bikers from Texas, Louisiana, and Oklahoma were united in partying fun, with bountiful cascades of beer, games, fun, and good war stories. The weather was fine, and the skies stayed clear. A perfect party to back up the perfect riding day yesterday. As the run wound down in midafternoon I began to reflect on the time I had been away from home—three weeks of everything from shivering cold to sunburn. Since I had pretty well covered the country, I packed the Black Bitch and started finding my way to an interstate. I followed a little back road for a while and before long I came upon a sign saying “I-10, 35 miles.” My last 35 miles of fun cruising before I hooked it for home. The weather was great. Before long I had my helmet off and in my lap, eating the soul food of bikers—a good bike, good weather, and a good road. But it wasn’t in my cards this day. A red light was in my rear view mirror. I was caught again. As the sheriff approached me, I had to stifle a laugh. This dumb cluck looked like he had just stepped out of a Dodge commercial from the late ’60s. He was a redneck from the word go. I just knew his name was Buford T. Wheems or something equally hick. He hitched his gun belt up on his over-padded gut as if to say, “OK, biker, it’s you or me,” and sauntered over. “Boah, y’all sposed to weah a hemut round heah, and you wahn’t!” I took this to mean I was supposed to be wearing my skid lid, and told him I was from a state that didn’t have a helmet law.

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